


Recovery

by LordAkira18



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Chapter 229
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 07:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14890095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordAkira18/pseuds/LordAkira18
Summary: "Recovery begins from the darkest moment." John Major





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> This story's been on the backburner for a long time now, so I thought I'd finish it and post it.
> 
> Yes, I am a HUGE Berserk fan, and I'm not gonna bore you with how much I love this series. All I will say is that, though who have no idea what this series is, you NEED to see it. Starting with the 1998 anime, of course.
> 
> This story is based on a segment in the manga, so HEAVY SPOILERS is advised if you haven't read the manga. Really, this story comes from two panels only. Those who love the manga, like me, should know which. A cookie to those who do!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

_"One must not forget that recovery is brought about not by the physician, but by the sick man himself. He heals himself, by his own power, exactly as he walks by means of his own power, or eats, or thinks, breathes or sleeps."_  Georg Groddeck.

* * *

Schierke was hollow.

She felt as though her insides had been scooped out messily, leaving behind a void that burned like dragon fire. And it is only now, only after mere moments ago, that she knows the sheer heat of dragon fire.

Her mistress was dead.

Time was a blur, going two ways. Her past firing before her eyes along with the present.

The one who had taught her everything was dead.

The world was a blur, colours shifting like light blurs from staring at the sun.

The person who raised her was dead.

The feeling of the forest, crying out in agony as the spirit tree burned, was deaf to her.

Her  _mother_  was dead.

Were it not for Guts, who carried her with one arm as they charged through the forest to gain distance between them and the legion of demons that had destroyed her life, she was pretty sure that she would have been a shaking wreck.

Not that that's stopped the tears, twin streaks rolling down her face.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped and Guts gently put her on the ground. They all, sans her, panted from exertion. Schierke looked at them all, numb to their discomfort. It occurred to her then that she couldn't feel anything, not the air on her face or the wood of her staff in her hand, let alone hear anything. Someone said something loud and grating, mostly likely that monkey Isidro, and she was actually grateful that she can barely hear past the sound of her blood rushing in her ears. She felt the familiar presence of Ivalera near her ear, but even her longtime companion's words failed to reach her brain.

She wondered if this was what normal people went through when they lost someone dear to them.

A tap on the shoulder, and a voice deeper than it ought to be broke through the fog in her mind with the gentleness of a hammer. "Oi."

Schierke looked up at the one who had saved her the trouble of running, of being crushed by burning bark, and her chest seized as she noticed the streak of white upon the head of short black hair. Guts didn't seem to notice, nor did he seem aware of the blood, grime and sweat that caked his face. He looked  _exhausted_ , far more than he usually did. "You okay?"

It took the young witch a moment to register the question before she opened her mouth. Nothing came out so she closed it. She settled for a nod.

It was a lie and she knew that he knew it was a lie. Regardless, he closed his eye and nodded slowly and deeply, offering no words of comforts. She was glad he didn't.

Of course, she wasn't okay.

She doubted she would ever be okay again.

"I believe we can rest easy, for a moment at least," Schierke turned to Serpico, the speaker, who spoke with the strain of a person who wasn't used to running long distances. Farnese looked like she wasn't fairing any better. The blonde servant was rolling a kink out of his shoulder, blonde bangs sticking to his sweaty brow. "The fire created the perfect diversion for us to escape, and even if some of those monsters gave chase, I doubt they'll be able to find us so quickly."

"Man, that was an awesome display!" How that monkey could be so energetic, after all that, was beyond her level of understanding. "I mean, I knew  _you_  were cool, but the old lady managed to stop a  _dragon!_  Seriously, how many people can do that?!"

There was a compliment somewhere in that sentence, but Schierke couldn't have cared less to find it. The mention of her mistress caused the void in her chest to throb, agonisingly. No words came to her mouth, her mind a blank canvas. Her dress felt tight and sticky, specifically on the right side of her waist for some reason. Putting her free hand on her side, she confirmed that yes, it was indeed wet with moisture. Why though? She hadn't run, and the heat of the fire hadn't left her that sweaty.

Looking down at her palm, she went white as virgin snow because the moisture was  _not_  sweat.

Sharply, she turned, his name on her lips, but she moved only in time to see the Black Swordsman toppled backwards like an axed tree and collapse heavily on the ground. The Berserker Armour cluttered nosily, blood flying from the seams of the armour like splashes of water that sprinkled the area around Guts with crimson dots.

"GUTS!" In a flash, she, Farnese and Isidro were at Guts' side kneeling. The cold feeling in Schierke filled her whole body as, on a closer inspection, blood was  _leaking_  out of Guts at various points in alarmingly numerous streams. The knees of her dress quickly went warm and sticky, not unlike the right side of her waist. Guts' lone eye had rolled into the back of his head, his body shuddered with violent spasms and his breathing left him in bloody, frothing wheezes. The witch acted without thinking, muttering an incantation that caused Guts to still, head turning to one side slightly. The bloody froth rolled down his cheek, his lone eye was shut and the following breaths he took were deep and slightly shaky with his body giving an occasional twitch.

"Is...is he...?" Farnese had one trembling hand reached out to Guts' bloody face, reaching yet never touching. Her eyes were pooled with tears. Besides her, Isidro looked like he was fighting down the urge to scream.

"He's okay," Puck spoke up, after what felt like forever since Schierke had last heard his voice, "He's still alive, I can feel his life force." He spoke with utter certainty, no humour to be heard. When he fluttered around to face Schierke, his face was grimmer than she had ever seen it.

"But he's weak,  _very_  weak."

Schierke was hardly surprised. With the way Guts had used Berserker Armour, he was lucky that he hadn't torn his body apart. To say nothing of the damaged he took. She recalled the garbled words of an Apostle, gleefully noting how it had broken four or five of Guts' ribs with a strike. She couldn't even fathom how Guts had gotten them this far, carrying her, without being bothered by the pain, Berserker Armour notwithstanding. The young witch pressed her lips into a grim, thin line, looking down at the bleeding man before her. The situation before her was obvious: Guts had to be monitored and protected while he healed.

There was no spell that she could use that would completely free him from the pain he was undoubtedly going through. He would have to trek that road alone.

When Isidro spoke up, voice tight with understandable irritation as he questioned what they should do, she answered with: "Right now, the armour's the only thing keeping Guts alive. It's keeping his shattered bones together and will remain that way until they heal. Naturally."

With a heavy sigh, she finished with, "Right now, all we can do is make sure that he doesn't stress his wounds and keep watch on him until he's well enough to travel."

The silence that blanketed the group, thick and crushing, was broken by Serpico's quiet proclamation. "I'll keep watch."

"I'll get some firewood," Isidro spoke up a moment after Serpico, bouncing off with Puck gliding after him.

Farnese wordless went to Casca's side whilst Ivalera took her residential spot upon the wide rim of the witch's hat.

There, alone with the branded warrior, Schierke silently vowed that she was not going to lose this man like she had her mistress.

* * *

Isidro was agitated.

Agitation and he went hand in hand, a driving force that was behind most of his action.

Agitation had made him leave his mundane home.

Agitation kept him sharp and focused, kept him moving as he wondered for days without food and water and refused to allow him to surrender.

Agitation of himself and his awe had propelled him to follow Guts, so obviously in awe of him but ever so unwilling to admit out loud.

Guts, a master swordsman.

Guts, the demon killer.

Guts, who was strength incarnate.

Guts, who laid bleeding and half dead on the ground.

Agitation flared in his breastbone like a small flame, refusing to go out and allow sleep to claim him. He wouldn't be able to sleep even if he wanted to, not until he was absolutely certain that Guts would be alright.

Guts would be alright, he told himself. He would, he would, he would.

He  _had_  to be.

Two days had passed, and while Guts was no longer leaking blood in streams like a split wineskin, he was still bleeding. There was little, he noted bitterly, that they could do to stop the bleeding. He had asked recently why the witch didn't just use her magic to heal Guts' wounds, to which she briefly explaining that she did have the skills to heal shattered bones. Guts' body, she claimed, would have to do its job alone. The words did little to ease Isidro's mood.

They did, though, spur on the growing animosity Isidro was feeling towards the girl.

As far as Isidro was concerned, everything that was happening to Guts was because of her and her now dead mistress. She had known of the dangers the armour possessed, what it would do to Guts both physically and mentally, and yet she put it on him anyway.

And now there he was, half dead on the ground with a streak of white in his black hair. Farnese (he trusted her a bit more now after Puck had offhandedly mentioned that she had protected Casca against a legion of Trolls) had been the one to point that out, looking like she had seen a massive spider crawling at her. He didn't blame her, the sight had sent a shard of ice into his stomach that had yet to remove itself.

There was also the way the girl  _looked_  and  _talked_  to him like he was beneath her. Like he was retarded or something. Did she honestly consider herself that superior to him? Did she really think he was that stupid?

Part of Isidro wanted to lash out, take out the Flaming Dagger she had given him and give her taste of its power. Grab her by the shoulders and shake her till she explained what the hell she had been thinking. Make her cry and admit her blame in all of this. That she had done this to Guts, was responsible for putting him in this state.

But he didn't.

Guts wouldn't be happy if he did.

So Isidro kept silent, and agitation mixed with resentment turning into something that felt almost like contempt. He spoke only when addressed, ignore Puck's half-hearted attempts to get a rise out of him, using whatever free time he had to practice with his dagger and the sword Morgan had given him.

More often than not did he imagine his enemy having a soft face with emerald eyes, and more often than not was he annoyed at how little the thoughts made him feel better.

* * *

Farnese was afraid.

There were many things that she was afraid of. Pain, loss, death. They were things that she now knew were pointless to fear, for they were inevitable things. Things that she should just be done with, confront them when they came. To stop hiding behind her men and a God she found herself believing in less day after day. Stop running away like a child would from the dark.

But what then?

That was the problem.

What would she do then?

But that was a problem that was neither here nor there and she was more preoccupied with her worry for Guts.

It was strange, really. The juxtaposition of her life now to what was steadily becoming her past. She almost couldn't recognize herself, the woman who had been dead set on capturing the Black Swordsman. They were days she tried not to think too much on, for there were things she had done that she now couldn't claim was done in God's name in good conscience. She and God hardly spoke to each other these days.

Perhaps that was Guts' influence. Not only was the man a natural survivor, but a complete cynic when it came to religion. She grimaced, remembering with embarrassment how wild her reaction had been to his defiance. How she had whipped him without mercy. How she had cut the skin and made him bleed-

She flushed, a swell of warmth blossoming in her stomach. She immediately felt ashamed and dirty.

She cast her eyes around, suddenly aware of how quiet the evening was. Isidro was slumped asleep against a neighbouring tree and Schierke was laying beside her, staff clutched to her chest in a way that reminded Farnese of how she clutched her stuff animal as a child. In fact, now that she thought about it, the young witch looked more like a child now that anytime she had appeared before.

Both children's countenance were heavy with an exhaustion that had been growing steadily the past few days. Isidro spent most of his time either collecting firewood or training whilst Schierke barely left Guts' side. Neither of the two went near the other.

Casca was curled up like a dog on the ground, far from Guts and content. She was the only one who seemed to be at ease.

Serpico was nowhere to be seen but Farnese wasn't worried about him. He could take care of himself. In fact, she was enjoying the distance between them.

Farnese would like to think that she could take care of herself. Or, at the very least, could carry her own weight within Guts' party. It was stressful, trying to find her footing, with Serpico always hovering close by. It irritated her, really, the way he  _babied_  her. Oh, she knew that was one of the reasons she took him into her home, but there was a time where the bird had to leave the nest.

And Farnese was confident she could fly on her own.

Fly alongside  _him_.

Her chest constricted and she looked to Guts, who was still save for the faint movements of his chest. It had been over a week now, and Guts had yet to regain consciousness. Farnese looked over him, the blood that mat his broad face and the streak of white in his black hair. Guts hardly ever slept in the time Farnese had known him and now that he was she feared if he would never wake up again.

Farnese didn't know what to do with herself if he didn't.

"Don't die." And then she was by his side, taking his hand in hers. The armour was cold, wet and limp like a dead fish. Irritably, she felt her eyes prickle and moisten. Damn her and her weak heart! "Please,  _please_  Guts. Please d-don't die." Grief almost had her folding over in, falling onto him but she managed to contain herself. The children were sleeping, after all.

She and God hardly spoke to each other these days.

And now she feared that He would ignore her latest prayer.

* * *

Serpico was guarded.

Sat high upon a thick tree branch whilst the rest of the party slumbered below him, he reflected that there was nary a moment where he wasn't guarded, wasn't always keeping his impassive mask in place. Wasn't hiding what he was feeling from everyone, especially from Farnese.

 _Especially_  from Farnese.

He also reflected that, of late, he was finding that task increasing stressful.

Growing up with the poor, Serpico never had the luxury of having friends. His mother had condemned him for wanting any, claiming that a son of royalty should know who his equals are and who his subjects are. Once Farnese found him, he began to wonder if the former maid had any friends. Being Farnese's servant made socialising even more difficult, people either kept their distance from him out of fear he would report anything untoward to Farnese or because they plain didn't like his person. Nobles, he quickly learned, were stingy like that.

If he was honest, Serpico didn't much care for other people.

No, that wasn't true.

It would be more accurate for him to say that he simply couldn't  _afford_  to care about other people.

Farnese, for all her flaws, had given him far more than he had ever hoped he would receive in his lifetime. Being her servant, simply  _mattering_  to someone, meant more to him than he could ever admit. He had been nothing, less than nothing before he met her, and now his entire existence revolved around her. If there was a task to be done, he would do it to the best of his abilities. If she had a problem, he would remove it swiftly.

He owed everything he was to her, and it was a payment he knew he was never going to able to fulfil.

And of late, he found that existence coming under threat.

That, and his emotions.

When Farnese had proclaimed that she wanted to follow the Black Swordsman, with no intention of returning to the Holy City, it had left Serpico rather speechless. He followed her wordlessly, ignoring how much he hoped she would lose her nerve and return home, but even then he knew that it was pointless to hope otherwise. When Farnese got determined on a task, she seldom let it go until it was fulfilled. Then if by luck, they ran into the little thief (Isidro, he corrected himself) and then Puck the Elf.

He highly doubted that it was Farnese's proudest moment to faint before an elf.

And then the unbelievable happened before his very eyes: Lady Farnese  _kneeling_  before the Black Swordsman.

The image was seared into his mind, for it was a sight he would never have expected of his master. And the way she spoke to him, so full of respect and plea, to the man she had dedicated herself to capturing and later killing. Farnese had never, to his knowledge, spoken to  _anyone_  like that before.

Farnese had never spoken to  _him_  that way before.

And the changes occurred: Farnese  _doing things herself_. Farnese trying to be  _helpful_. Farnese looking after Casca (he had many ideas as to who this mad woman was to Guts, but kept them to himself). All these things Serpico could have done himself, for her, yet she had refused him. She had insisted that she could do it. While she had made mistakes, which he had gently explained to her, the sheer fact that Farnese was  _willing_  to do these things left him amazed.

Who was this suddenly thoughtful woman?

Where had his (selfish, bratty, callous) Mistress gone?

He recalled the odd feeling that stirred in his chest when these moments happened, refusing to leave and whispering venomous words in his mind. He had tried to ignore it, put it out of his mind, but ultimately his crescendo of frustration reached its breaking point and he found himself not-too-subtly threatening Guts.

_"To be completely honest, I'd like you to die."_

Serpico regretted his words, for two different reasons:

One reason was that he knew the words were pointless towards Guts, who took them without so much as a twitch. It was no guess that Serpico didn't have a chance of defeating Guts, a fact the blonde was very well aware of.

And another was because fate, it would seem, had granted his subconscious desire.

It was coming close to two weeks since Guts had initially collapsed and, despite the odd twitch and vague mumble, the man had yet to fully awaken. Schierke had explained to them that Guts needed to heal naturally and, considering the wounds Guts had sustained, Serpico imagined that was going to take quite a bit of time.

If, and only  _if_ , Guts was going to die—

Serpico honestly wasn't sure what he would do next.

A nearly inaudible noise reached his keen ears and he looked down from where he sat to its source. What he saw momentarily took his breath away: Farnese, kneeling beside Guts' still form, her hands clutching his limp armoured one. Her shoulder trembling, her breathing quick and choked, her quiet pleadings flowing up to his ears: "Don't die. Please,  _please_  Guts. Please d-don't die."

Farnese had  _never_  cried over him.

Serpico forced himself to look over the blackened forest.

He forced himself to ignore all the violent and petty things that swelled in his chest.

He would guard the group until Guts woke up.

_"Whatever Lady_ _Farnese wants, Lady Farnese gets."_

* * *

Puck was quiet.

It's strange, he thought, for him to be so quiet.

Ever since he had met Guts, he managed to maintain an optimistic personality despite the constant gloom and doom attitude of the Black Swordsman. It had been taxing in the beginning, to watch Guts cruelly spit on people and constantly throw caution to the wind for the sake of killing Apostles. The incident with the Count had been particularly harrowing, for that was when Puck finally understood how driven Guts was for revenge.

Sometime Puck thought of those times, thinks of the Count and his daughter Theresia. He couldn't forget the young noble girl's face after the ordeal was over, the look of pure hatred as she swore that she would kill Guts. And Guts...who just told her to give it her best shot.

He had been angry then, ready to tear the man a new one, only to come to a crashing halt when he saw that Guts was  _crying_. The expression was burned into Puck's mind, for it was the moment he realised that everything he thought knew about Guts was wrong. That there was more to him than just revenge and cruelty.

Recent events had proven that to be true, there was so more to Guts than meets the eyes.

But being with Guts, seeing the world he lives in, had taught Puck many things.

One important lesson was learning when to keep his mouth shut.

The elf was under no illusion that the situation was dire, even by the standards of their small group. Though he had seen Guts put himself through many trying experiences multiple times before, put himself to the edge of death, he had never really come as close to death's door as he had now. Guts' life energy was like a weak flame two and a half weeks ago, coming so dangerously close to going out were it not for the other's efforts. It was steady now, but not the usual furnace-like intensity.

All Puck had been able to do, along with Ivalera's help, was heal the wounds on Guts' head. The wounds under the armour were unreachable.

His fellow elf was also quiet, but only after dropping some quip that had gotten her a scathing look by Schierke that made her clam up really quickly. She didn't speak so much, and as colourfully, after that.

Everyone was tense, everyone was tired and afraid that the worse would happen. That Guts was going to die. But Puck wasn't afraid.

The elf had hope in Guts.

Trust in his complete and utter stubbornness when facing impossible odds.

He had hope.

* * *

Casca was lost.

For two years now, she had been lost.

She existed, yet she did not live. She saw things, yet she did not register them. Horror, pity, joy. They were all foreign to her in her current state of mind, lost in a perpetual state of obliviousness, knowing only the things that were immediate to her.

The man with one eye, for example. Her instincts warned her that he was dangerous. Before, she had not minded him. In fact, she had trusted him enough to let him get close to her. But then he was on her, kissing her,  _biting_  her, and she could not trust him to be near her. Her instincts blared whenever his lone eye would rest on her, pinning her with that deep and fathomless gaze. And at the same time, something deep within her spasmed. Something twisted, like a snake coiling in on itself.

But Casca could not understand what this thing was.

She didn't have the mind to process it.

So when he laid there, bleeding and darker than she had ever seen him, she kept her distanced and watched.

Blind and deaf to the coiling, she watched from a distance.

* * *

Guts was hurting.

Pain was an old enemy, one he had fought against his whole life. Sometimes he won, sometimes he didn't. Pain has taken form in various ways, various events that have seared themselves into his mind. Things he will never forget, things he can't afford to forget. Things that have shaped into the person he is today, the monster both humans and Apostles alike see him as, the Hundred Man Slayer. The Black Swordsman. The thing that is regarded with fear and contempt.

The thing Casca fears.

He could recall every traumatic event, from the latest battle to his earliest memory, each holding its own level of pain. Each searing him with their individual flame. Many of them he's accustomed to, has grown used to or has simply learned to ignore them outright.

But then there was the inferno.

The Eclipse.

It's a place that Guts can't approach, that he may never be able to approach. To go there would be to relive a horror that no normal human would survive, a scar on his sanity that still bleeds darkness into his soul. To go there would be to remember all those faces as he saw them, and then to remember as they had been before. All their hopes and dreams, of the worth they had that he realised too late.

Of his ultimate, greatest failure.

It was ironic, really.

He had once equated Griffith to a roaring fire.

It was only fitting, he supposed, that Femto would be a black inferno.

The author of all his pain.

The source of all his hate.

The  _thing_  that had once been his  _friend_.

That was the past, though.

Right now, in the present moment, Guts felt  _awful_.

If one were to ask how he'd felt, he would say that he felt like he had been in a fistfight with Zodd, then slapped around by that asshole Wyald and then Femto (that cunt) had decided to have a go at him.

Or something.

As he opened his heavy eye, shards of light stab through the darkness. Everything was blurry, impossible to decipher. Incoherent sounds filled his ears, sounding distant and muted as though they came from the bottom of a deep well. He gently flexed the fingers of his right hand, revealed that he could still feel them. He tried to speak, to call out to someone, but his tongue felt like a dry piece of meat in his mouth. A bloody piece of meat.  _His_  blood.

Oh, this couldn't be good.

"Guts!" The call was glass being dug into his ears, sharp and biting. It served to help him shake off the last of his drowsiness and he could see a familiar blue light fluttering before his face. Though it was merely a blurry light to him, he knew the blur was Puck.

"Hey Guts, you're awake!" A blur of red and peach hovered near his side. Isidro. It was impossible to mistake that young, shrill voice.

Soon enough they were all present, his little group of travellers, each making sounds of relief that he had woken. Guts was baffled. What was their deal? How long had he been out? Why was his vision so poor when his hearing was crystal clear? Questions for later.

Even though his ears rang painfully from each cry of joy, he was glad to see that all of them were alright. Had he of lost any of them-

 _"Never again,"_ He thought vehemently, crushing the sickening idea before it had time to fester and grow like an infection.  _"Never. Again."_

With a throat as dry as sand, he croaked, "Water." And no sooner as the word left is chapped lips did he feel the top of a wineskin press against his mouth and fresh water rolling down his throat. He held back a groan at the ever so pleasant soothing sensation that shot through him.

Schierke's voice came to him like a gentle breath of wind and, even with his poor vision, he saw her familiar purple form. "Guts, how do you feel?"

Were it anyone else, he'd say something snappy or incredulous. But because it was her, he just gave a simple, "Alright." And then Guts moved into a sitting position.

He regretted the action instantly.

Pain stabbed through him and tore him asunder like multiple white-hot knives, his ears registering wet pops from within his body. He felt his bones break like glass and scrap his insides and he cried out, falling back onto the ground as fresh blood moistened his tongue. He withered and twisted, body warm and wet, suddenly aware of the multiple cold spears in his body. From the armour.

Why?

What was it doing to him?

He could hear his friend's cry out to him but he couldn't tell who was who. Sound had become deaf to him, a meaningless conglomeration of muted noises. The pain was overwhelming, threatening to consume him before a sudden veil of calmness enveloped him. Schierke. The little witch really was impressive. He heard:  _"I'm sorry, Guts. Just wait a little bit longer."_

Guts found that he didn't mind waiting a bit longer, despite the pain, falling into darkness.

They were safe.

That was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it!
> 
> I'm rather proud with how this turned out. With Berserk, you can always have so much fun with the characters. There's just so many possibilities to explore. Of all of them, Farnese's bit was the hardest to write. (I ship her with Guts, BTW)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
